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Russian Mosaic is the true story of a young girl from a Russian mining town above the Arctic Circle, whose coming of age is marked by tragedy and hardship, but ultimately survival.

She spent her childhood and college years under the structured control of the state. As a young adult, she witnessed the fall of communism and the Soviet Union, and with it, the change of lifestyle for all Russians.

The daughter of a miner father and an accountant mother, Olga endures a number of ordeals that would have broken others less resilient.

From the untimely passing of her father, and through a variety of early life experiences, she learns from her mother not to rely on others, but to be self-sufficient and to make her own way in the world.

She not only survives but succeeds and writes with the hope of inspiring other women who face adversity in life. Read more Read less.

Kindle Cloud Reader Read instantly in your browser. Customers who bought this item also bought. Page 1 of 1 Start over Page 1 of 1. Captivating History.

Relli Robinson. When We Were Brave. Karla M. Surviving the Survivors: A Memoir. My Heart from Inside: An emotional page turner about two babies switched before birth.

Aviva Gat. Arie Tamir. Register a free business account. Review This is an excellent read, written in the style of a memoir.

Customer reviews. How are ratings calculated? Instead, our system considers things like how recent a review is and if the reviewer bought the item on Amazon.

It also analyzes reviews to verify trustworthiness. Customer images. See all customer images. Top reviews Most recent Top reviews.

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Verified Purchase. The author writes about school, home life, traveling, medical treatment, holiday celebrations, higher education, sexual abuse, and Soviet politics and traditions.

Overall, an enjoyable book, and a surprisingly-good work by a new author. Highly recommended. I found this book to be gripping. I could not put it down.

I have already bought it as a birthday gift for one of my friends. The book contains a story of triumph over adversity.

It is about the life of a girl born and raised in the harsh conditions north of the polar circle in Communist Russia who overcame the hard existence at the edges of both society and geography to graduate from a University.

Thank you,Olga for sharing your story with us. While Olga Kane details in her autobiography the dark times and the injustices she had to overcome, she weaves in the humorous twists and turns as well as her outlandish adventures.

The memoir explains Russia in terms of its society and culture in a rare, captivating writing style, that pulls the reader in, making the reader wanting to know what will happen next to Olga.

With every page, the reader is on the edge of his or her seat, trying to imagine what will happen and how Olga will deal with it.

The book has a message for women everywhere: no matter what hardships, transgressions, and unfairness you are facing, you can find hope and inspiration from this book and learn how to be brave and courageous and turn tragedy into an optimistic future through strength.

I was increasingly curious as to what would happen to her next and wanted to know how the story would end. Full disclosure, I know Olga personally, but not well.

She is very charming, attractive, and animated. These are qualities I observed on the surface. What her book revealed was that she has a knack for storytelling and more importantly, what a resilient survivor she is.

A great read specially for book clubs. Her detailed explanation of How life is under a socialist regime are a reminder of how precious our freedoms are.

They should be taken very seriously by those who are calling for such practices. I really enjoyed this personal account of what it was like being a young lady in Soviet Russia.

It was very informative describing long lines waiting for items especially food and the scarcity of things we take for granted here in America.

At 84, Angelou shows few signs of slowing down. Maya Angelou died in Louis, Missouri, but Vivian Baxter was born black and poor, to black and poor parents.

Later she would grow up and be called beautiful. As a grown woman she would be known as the butter-colored lady with the blowback hair. Her father, a Trinidadian with a heavy Caribbean accent, had jumped from a banana boat in Tampa, Florida, and evaded immigration agents successfully all his life.

He spoke often and loudly with pride at being an American citizen. No one explained to him that simply wanting to be a citizen was not enough to make him one.

She was called an octoroon, meaning that she had one-eighth Negro blood. Her hair was long and straight.

At the kitchen table, she amused her children by whirling her braids like ropes and then later sitting on them. Vivian was the firstborn of the Baxter children.

As they grew, their father made violence a part of their inheritance. But if you are charged with fighting, I will sell your mother to get your bail.

The brothers armed would enter the bar. They would station themselves at the door, at the ends of the bar, and at the toilets. Uncle Cladwell would grab a wooden chair and break it, handing Vivian a piece of the chair.

At home they told their fighting stories often and with great relish. Grandmother Baxter played piano in the Baptist church and she liked to hear her children sing spiritual gospel songs.

She would fill a cooler with Budweiser and stack bricks of ice cream in the refrigerator. The Baxters were proud of their ability to sing.

Many years later, I heard them often, when my father, Bailey Johnson Sr. They were proud to be loud and on key. Neighbors often dropped in and joined the songfest, each trying to sing loudest.

She promised her father she would make sure they were tough. She led her brothers to the local park and made them watch as she climbed the highest tree.

She picked fights with the toughest boys in her neighborhood, never asking her brothers to help, counting on them to wade into the fight without being asked.

Her father chastised her when she called her sister a sissy. When Cladwell gets up some size, he will take over.

They were unable to restrain themselves. The Baxter boys could not intimidate Bailey Johnson, especially after Vivian told them to lay off, to straighten up, and fly right.

He said he was a dietitian. The Baxters said that meant he was just a Negro cook. Vivian and Bailey left the contentious Baxter atmosphere and moved to California, where little Bailey was born.

I came along two years later. They were matches and gasoline. They even argued about how they were to break up. Neither wanted the responsibility of taking care of two toddlers.

I was three and Bailey was five when we arrived in Stamps, Arkansas. We had identification tags on our arms and no adult supervision.

I learned later that Pullman car porters and dining car waiters were known to take children off trains in the North and put them on other trains heading south.

Save for one horrific visit to St. The visit to St. Louis lasted only a short time but I was raped there and the rapist had been killed. I thought I had caused his death because I told his name to the family.

Out of guilt, I stopped talking to everyone except Bailey. I decided that my voice was so powerful that it could kill people, but it could not harm my brother because we loved each other so much.

When my brilliant brother Bailey was fourteen he had reached a dangerous age for a black boy in the segregated South. It was a time when if a white person walked down the one paved block in town, any Negro on the street had to step aside and walk in the gutter.

I knew the time would come when you would grow too old for the South. I will write to your mother and daddy.

You and Maya, and especially you, Bailey, will have to go back to California, and soon. The folktale told how a farmer whose carrots the rabbit had been stealing caught Brer Rabbit.

The farmer threatened to kill the rabbit and turn him into a stew. Rabbit jumped up and down. I loved her and I liked her and I felt safe under the umbrella of her love.

Black boys his age who even noticed white girls risked being beaten, bruised, or lynched by the Ku Klux Klan. He had not yet mentioned a white girl, but as he was growing into his manhood, seeing a pretty white girl and being moved by her beauty was inevitable.

She said she and I would go to California first and Bailey would follow a month later. Bailey would be safe with Uncle Willie.

Bailey thought he was looking after Uncle Willie, but the truth was, Uncle Willie was looking after him. By the time the train reached California, I had become too frightened to accept the idea that I was going to meet my mother at last.

My grandmother took my hands. We are not surprising her. When she received my letter explaining how Junior was growing up, she invited us to come to California.

I calmed down. When we descended the train steps, I looked for someone who could be my mother. Mother Annie!

I wanted to sink into the ground. That woman who looked like a movie star deserved a better-looking daughter than me. I knew it and was sure she would know it as soon as she saw me.

She pushed away and looked at me. You look like your daddy and me. I had not received one kiss in all the years in Arkansas. Often my grandmother would call me and show me off to her visitors.

That was the closest I had come to being kissed. Now Vivian Baxter was kissing my cheeks and my lips and my hands. Her home, which was a boardinghouse, was filled with heavy and very uncomfortable furniture.

She showed me a room and said it was mine. I told her I wanted to sleep with Momma. And when she decided that everything was all right, she was happy.

I was not. She began to talk about going home, and wondering aloud how her crippled son was getting along.

Trust me, but more than that trust the Lord. He will look after you. Sometimes she would dance just because she felt like it, alone, by herself, in the middle of the floor.

My mother watched me without saying much for about two weeks. I am not. But I am your mother and I am working some part of my anatomy off to pay for this roof over your head.

When you go to school, the teacher will smile at you and you will smile back. But on the other hand, I am your mother. If you can force one smile on your face for strangers, do it for me.

I promise you I will appreciate it. Come on. Be charitable. She kissed me on my lips and started to cry. It is a beautiful smile.

That day, I learned that I could be a giver simply by bringing a smile to another person. The ensuing years have taught me that a kind word or a vote of support can be a charitable gift.

I can move over and make another place for another to sit. I can turn my music up if it pleases, or down if it is annoying. I may never be known as a philanthropist, but I certainly want to be known as charitable.

I was beginning to appreciate her. I liked to hear her laugh because I noticed that she never laughed at anyone. After a few weeks it became clear that I was not using any title when I spoke to her.

In fact, I rarely started conversations. Most often, I simply responded when I was spoken to. Read more. Start reading on your Kindle in under a minute.

Don't have a Kindle? Customer reviews. How are ratings calculated? Instead, our system considers things like how recent a review is and if the reviewer bought the item on Amazon.

It also analyzes reviews to verify trustworthiness.

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